Counting Stars
by A Drop of Starlight
Summary: Antonio, failed writer and journalist, thinks things are finally going his way when he lands an interview with actor Lovino Vargas. But it's only the start of a long line of problems... the biggest of which may be Vargas himself. (Spamano, Human AU)
1. square one

_You are not wrong, who deem_  
><em>That my days have been a dream;<em>  
><em>Yet if hope has flown away<em>  
><em>In a night, or in a day,<em>  
><em>In a vision, or in none,<em>  
><em>Is it therefore the less gone?<em>  
><em>All that we see or seem<em>  
><em>Is but a dream within a dream.<em>

–_ "A Dream Within a Dream," Edgar Allan Poe_

* * *

><p>His nose was freezing. Covering it didn't help, since his gloved fingers were also freezing. And the coffee, he noted, had begun to follow suit, slowly but surely. Drinking it was now out of the question – he should have done that before leaving his flat, but it was already too late.<p>

Antonio re-capped his thermos and set it aside, a safe distance from his laptop case. The window to his right had crusted over with a thin layer of ice. He rubbed at it and glanced out – but nothing met his eyes, only the dank grey walls of the tunnel they were passing through. After a brief and fruitless search for patterns in the stone, he gave up and turned away, not noticing how the ice regrew in the absence of his warmth.

He'd been lucky to get an actual seat today. The other ninety-nine percent of train passengers had squashed together in the center, an unpleasant medley of young and old, every face sporting some degree of fatigue and irritation.

Antonio knew he looked no different.

Ten minutes, and already he missed Francis and Gilbert. He knew he hadn't much right to complain; at any given time one of them was always running off on some assignment or other. But it was one thing to be tired and with company, another to be tired and alone in a car full of strangers he had no will to talk to. Surely Gilbert would've found _something _amusing in that pudgy scarf-wrapped man's death stare. And Francis – well, Francis would most certainly have suggested makeup to brighten everyone's faces.

Not that he'd actually do it, of course. Most of the time he was simply a man of words. They all were. It was what they did for a living.

Antonio fought down a yawn and opened his laptop, eyes smarting at the flash of the screen. No new assignments in his inbox – for now; it meant he'd have to conjure up story ideas later in the day. Mathias Kohler, editor-in-chief, could be kind on occasion when they weren't busy. But _not busy _had gone from Antonio's vocabulary five years ago, when he'd first thrown himself headlong into journalism.

Aimlessly he scrolled through his messages, thinking how sad it was that this mailbox could almost be a metaphor for his life – cluttered, overwhelmed, sometimes littered with meaningful junk. Here was a link from Francis, dated four months ago, to some strange video he hadn't watched, taking Gilbert's advice to protect his mind. There were Gilbert's pictures with a fat little poodle he'd met while traveling in the south (it had wanted to pose with him, obviously). Then invitations from a rival newspaper Antonio had turned down. Old assignments he'd traded with Gilbert and Francis. Even mail from his cousin-more-like-brother João, years ago, asking him if he wanted to meet up and talk about _that_ –

Antonio stopped, finger stamping down hard on the mouse, but it was already too late.

Disappointment. Resentment. Frustration.

The same three emotions, every time he came upon those thirty messages, every time he was reminded in the slightest. Twenty hadn't been enough to bring him down; hadn't so many other authors been rejected too?

But ten more, and he'd sunk like a raft in a hurricane. HarperCollins, Macmillan, Simon and Schuster, all the names he knew by heart. All refusal, flat-out refusal. Even the smaller ones had said the same things. So many times. _Too many times_.

The words were already ingrained in his memory.

_We're sorry, but we're currently busy and won't be able to represent your novel._

_I wish you __better success with another publisher__._

_Thank you for your patience, but your project does not fit our list at this time._

And the most blatantly crushing one, the most mind-numbing, something he should've known all along.

_Sorry, __not for us._

Antonio had never liked failure. He despised it. But he'd never expected himself to fail, flagrantly, over and over and over again. He'd kept those messages for a reason – to remind himself, every now and then, just how fleeting success could be.

But seeing them now still brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

He shut his computer with a bang, shoved it away, and leaned against the cold shell of the train. If there was nothing productive he could do here, at least he could grab a few winks' worth of rest from the world.

* * *

><p>It took almost as long to shake the snow off his coat as it did to climb the stairs.<p>

When Antonio finally pushed open the door to the newsroom, he was greeted by the sounds of rapid typing, hurried phone calls and furious paper-ruffling. A newbie called Toris had overturned a stack, again. Copies of the Monday edition littered the floor, all covered with pictures Antonio recognized: Bella Peeters, the blushing young blonde who had starred in the latest horror movie, strolling casually down the street from her house; and actor Lovino Vargas, all dark hair and dark sunglasses, smile nonexistent, walking in the opposite direction with hands in the pockets of his designer jeans. _VARGAS BREAKS UP WITH __PEETERS A FOURTH TIME_, the headline read.

Across the room, Arthur Kirkland, managing editor of the _Times_, could be seen storming through his office doorway, humongous eyebrows haphazardly arranged. Antonio decided he had to move fast.

"Here, let me help," he whispered to Toris, and in one motion swept up a large portion of the scattered papers. Toris mouthed a fervent 'Thank you,' and by the time Arthur arrived both of them were safely installed in their respective chairs, typing away.

"Was that you I saw dropping things, Toris?" the editor barked, marching to the unfortunate man's desk and picking up a paper. Immediately he dropped it like he'd been burned. "What the hell is this?" he shouted, pointing at the cover indignantly. "You were supposed to print the Vargas article in the Entertainment section, not the _front page_! That was _all I asked_!"

"I'm sorry," whispered Toris, blowing his nose and standing. "I'll go reprint them right away."

Arthur snatched up the faulty newspapers with a sniff, then leveled a glare at Antonio. "And as for you – "

"Ah_, bonjour, mon __cher _Arthur!" interrupted a honey-sweet voice, property of Francis Bonnefoy, only just returning to his desk with two steaming Styrofoam cups. "How are you today? I see the weather's dampened your spirits a bit... Here, allow me to treat you to a friendly cup of coffee, _poured with love_ – "

"Excuse me!?" It seemed even Arthur wasn't immune to Francis' overwhelming French charm; he had promptly turned a precise shade of beet red. "No, I have plenty of _tea _with me, thank you very much, Francis! Now if you'll _kindly_ get back to work before we break all the deadlines..."

Francis arrived beside Antonio, and watched with a smirk as the managing editor retired, flustered, to his office. "That man has the strangest mood swings, _mon __Dieu_." He set down a cup in front of Antonio. "Still, it's cute, no?"

Antonio halfheartedly suppressed a snort and took a sip of coffee. "I don't think flirting with superiors is the best idea. But hey, thanks for saving me."

"Oh, it's nothing. You'd do the same for me anytime. And you may actually be right about that..." Francis had quieted and resumed his seat. Now they were two in a circle of desks all strewn with notes and folders and computer keyboards and telephones, though of course Francis' was the neatest, which was saying a lot. The Frenchman peered closely at him over his coffee cup. "You're really quiet today, Toni. What's up?"

"Nothing. Where's Gil?"

"_Dashing through the snow, on a one-horse open sleigh, o'er to __Vash's __place, laughing all the way_!" Francis chortled. "His exact words. A bit late for the holidays though. No, but really" – and here he leaned forward conspiratorially, voice lowering – "that man has some _pretty _strong views against gun control. Gil's going to have fun with this article, for sure."

A slight grin was all he received from Antonio, who had been drinking his coffee and warming his fingers simultaneously. "I would've liked that one too. Haven't visited Vash in ages." He gestured to the threatening-looking pile of manila folders by Francis' elbow. "Need any help with that?"

"_Non_, it's fine. It's just all the info the company gave me – got a lucky break. But look at yours!"

Following his gaze, Antonio sighed inwardly. The first of the stack before him was a list of topics they'd covered in the past three weeks.

He scanned the narrow column of text. Last week Gilbert had followed the White House's New Year's celebration, Yao Wang a suspension at a local high school. And Elizabeta Hedervary had tracked down an elusive new author, who had published under a pseudonym two bestsellers –

That was where Antonio stopped reading.

* * *

><p>"Whoever decided to make New York this cold must've been a sadist."<p>

"You think?" Antonio replied absently, shuffling through the snow. A great deal of it had enveloped the ground during the afternoon, a massive comforter draped over houses and shops and streets. Francis had stopped briefly to empty some snow from his shoe, and Antonio gave him a sidelong look. He seemed so at ease, so much in his element here, like the cold was simply another stranger that could never be part of him. Antonio almost envied him for it; for his part he felt stifled, the blood in him yearning for something warmer, warm and alive like home, like Spain...

"You're so out of it today, Antonio. What's going on?"

Antonio watched his breath puff out into the air, like smoke from a dying fire.

"Just tired."

It was true – he'd spent the entire day at the office, doing the same monotonous things he always did on his off days.

Brainstorming. Phone calls. Updating the news website. Making copies. His limbs ached from the cold and long hours of sitting. His head still hurt from the computer screen's glare. His fingers felt like deadweights – if only he had a pencil, and a notebook that wasn't full of notes tailored to Arthur's and Mathias' tastes, and a time and place to sit down and write, write without stopping, scream out his thoughts through words –

"Earth to Antonio?" Francis was waving at him, brows furrowed in concern. "All right, no more of these long silences. Tell me what it is."

Antonio stopped. "I just... need a break. I need a break," he repeated, tonelessly. Francis scrutinized him for a long moment, and then he sighed.

"Well, if that's what it is..." He grabbed Antonio's arm, pulling him forward. "We are going back home right now, I'm going to make amazing chicken _cordon bleu_ for you, you'll go to sleep _early_ tonight and wake up tomorrow all refreshed and ready for work. Okay?"

The words stuck in Antonio's throat and he could only nod, feeling suddenly, unbearably grateful. Together they trudged through the snow to the subway – one tall dark world-weary man and a somewhat shorter blond, making no sound in the muffled icy air.

"Sit," commanded Francis as soon as they returned, pushing Antonio to the couch near the heating vent. "And sleep a little if you need it. Dinner will be ready in half an hour."

"Wait – " Antonio tried to stand. "I forgot – today's my turn!"

Francis forced him to sit back down. "There will be no _taking turns_ when you look like this, _mon __ami_. Just rest."

Antonio relented and watched him enter the kitchen – the walled-off corner that served as a kitchen, anyway. The rest of their flat wasn't much – faded blue wallpaper, living room consisting of two battered couches around a squat wooden table. To the right was a partition, shielding their folding beds and desks from view; remnants of tinsel and colored lights still hung here and there, Francis' attempt to spruce things up for the holidays. They'd been talking of finding a new place since Christmas, as they had the money for that now, but so far their efforts had been unsuccessful.

The doorbell buzzed. Automatically Antonio rose as he heard the jingle of keys dropping, and a muttered curse; it was Gilbert who burst in, slamming the door behind him to keep out the draft.

"Holy hell, is it c-cold outside." At top speed he picked up his keys and jettisoned his snow-covered coat and bags, before collapsing, shivering, in Antonio's seat beside the heater. "Almost froze to death out there!"

"What happened to your scarf?" asked Antonio, hanging up the fallen coat and pulling a blanket off Gilbert's bed to cover him with. "I thought you were wearing it earlier."

"Gave it away." Gilbert grinned shakily, accepting a mug of hot cocoa from a reproachful Francis and warming his fingers around it. "Lil' tyke didn't have one. He needed it more than me."

Francis sighed and shook his head. "At least you didn't give away your coat, too."

"Aww, don't worry. Beilschmidts were made to be strong." Already Gilbert was reviving, his face having taken on a warmer glow. "Besides, I wouldn't miss that interview with Vargas for a million dollars."

"Vargas?" Antonio asked languidly from beside him, listening to the sound of Francis cooking. "He was in the papers today."

"Of course – he's gonna make headlines later this week, too. Did you know he and Bella Peeters are the lead roles in that movie coming out soon?"

"No way. They just broke up yesterday!"

"That's where the irony comes in. Their characters are supposed to fall in love! Can't wait to hear what Vargas has to say about _that_."

"Sounds like fun," murmured Antonio, slowly dozing off against Gilbert's shoulder. "Tell me about it when you get back. When is it?"

"The day after tomorrow. Wednesday."

"Great."

And Antonio fell asleep.

* * *

><p>"Oh, <em>shit<em>."

"Gil?" Antonio rolled over and squinted at his friend's silhouette in the bed to his right. "What's – _mierda_, you look horrible!"

"I know," rasped Gilbert. "Something's wrong with my throat. Hurts to talk."

Antonio rushed over to feel his friend's forehead. "_Dios __mio_, you're burning! Francis, can you get up for a minute? Where'd you put the meds?"

The Frenchman shot up and shoved off his blankets. "_Quoi_? _Oui__, attend_ – I mean, yeah! Wait up – " He ran to the kitchen, returning moments later with a small plastic bottle, and stopped to stare at Gilbert. "_Putain__, __t'es __vraiment __malade__..._"

Gilbert covered his eyes and groaned. "How'm I going to work tomorrow – " He broke off with a cough. Antonio and Francis exchanged heavy glances.

"You can't go anywhere like this, Gil," said Antonio finally. "You need to rest. Francis and I could call Mathias for you."

"...Fine." Gilbert tossed over his phone, downed some Tylenol, and lay back down. "Tell him my other shit's on its way."

"Of course."

"I doubt he'll be up at this hour. Ah well, but it's urgent anyway," muttered Francis, already dialing the Editor-in-Chief's number. "Hello? Oh, hey – Mathias, you _are _awake! Sorry for the late call, but..." He glanced at their resting friend. "Gilbert's sick, caught cold yesterday when he was going to Vash's. He might not be able to make it to the Vargas interview..."

"Let me talk," Gilbert rasped again, taking the phone. "Mathias?" He winced. "I'm really sorry about that. I've done everything else... Thanks so much. I'll be back as soon as I can." He paused to listen. "... Yeah. Yeah, I'll tell him. Thanks again – bye."

Francis and Antonio watched expectantly as he hung up. Gilbert leaned back and gave them a tired grin.

"Well, I'm off the hook now. Antonio, you're on."

* * *

><p>Away from the noisy newsroom, away from the tiny flat he shared with his friends, away from New York City itself where he felt so small and unnoticed, Antonio supposed he should feel free. After all, here he was on an airplane, high as could be, so far removed from the busy meaninglessness of his daily life.<p>

But it didn't feel like escape; it was just another duty.

He stared out the window, a habit of commuting that he still couldn't shake. Outside all was grey, grey and impenetrable. A wall of clouds, still just as stifling as the subway tunnels. He closed his eyes and willed himself to stop thinking. It would do no good to show up at the interview looking like a trapped animal – that never made a good impression.

At length he turned to his laptop for a distraction. He'd made sure to look up the actor in the few hours before his flight, and Google, it seemed, was particularly friendly to the name.

Lovino Vargas, from what he could see, was the _don't give a damn _kind of celebrity. Twenty-eight, son of Italian immigrants, eight-figure salary and worldwide fame for his roles in a dozen big movies. Apparently he had the outspokenness to go with it, too, not to mention his strange fancy for fleeting relationships with other actors and actresses. Bella Peeters had broken records for having spent the most time with him – but they had parted for the fourth time in a year after Vargas learned she'd kept a ring from an old flame, a Belgian singer.

"It was just a disappointment to me," was all Vargas had said on the matter, according to a rival newspaper's article. There was even a picture of him: windblown brown hair, disdainful dark eyes, elegantly carved mouth turned down at the corners. All radiating the utmost boredom.

And somehow they'd still be starring together in _Before Sunrise_. The reason why Antonio was flying over this very minute.

It took him a long moment to realize he didn't really care.

* * *

><p>He did love Beverly Hills, though. Sprawling mansions and perfect lawns and streets so neatly paved they must've come straight out of a picture book – even the skies were a blue rarely seen in New York. And how could it possibly be this warm in the middle of winter? But the air wasn't thick, wasn't oppressively hot; the wind was gentle on Antonio's skin, with a subtle flowery scent, making him want to sit down with a notebook and immortalize it all.<p>

It felt just as unreal walking up to the Vargas residence. He had to make sure every step landed squarely on the narrow stone path, far enough away from the grass, every blade identical in height and color. Before him loomed the grand house he didn't dare stare at for too long, with high doors of shining wood and pristine white paint and elegant balconies and window-panes golden in the afternoon sun.

According to Mathias, the only reason Vargas had agreed to receive him here was that he didn't want anyone spying on him. Antonio thought he could guess who that might be.

Reaching the polished front door, he rang the doorbell and waited, holding his breath. No answer. He rang again, adjusting the collar of his jacket, which had grown a little warm, and made sure his journalist's implements were still safe in his pockets – one for the notepad, a second for the pens, a third for his phone. His press card hung heavily around his neck.

Suddenly two voices started up, some distance behind the door.

"Mr. Vargas! Mr. Vargas!" Echoing, hurried footsteps. "You don't need to answer – it might be – "

"No, no, it's fine! I want to see for myself."

And the door swung open.

High, bright, energetic – that had been his voice. And here, undoubtedly, was Vargas himself, all smiles and sunshine, from his welcoming air to his upturned mouth. Behind him, off to the side, was an older uniformed man – a butler.

"Oh, you must be the journalist!" The actor stuck out his hand in a surprisingly friendly manner. "Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, correct?"

"Yes." Antonio recovered just in time to paste on a smile and shake Vargas' hand. It was soft like a child's, but his grip was firm. No ornaments on his fingers, no rings. Antonio made sure not to hold on too long. "It's a real pleasure to meet you!"

Vargas flashed another improbably dazzling smile. "No, no, the pleasure's all mine! Come in, come in. You must've had a hard time getting here from New York!"

"Not at all." Secretly Antonio was marveling at the man's cheerfulness – he certainly hadn't looked this happy in any of the pictures Antonio had seen. But maybe that was just his way in public.

Antonio's thoughts took a new turn as he followed Vargas into the living room.

This one room itself had to be bigger than his entire flat. Off-white walls, adorned everywhere with framed paintings and photographs. A jeweled chandelier hung from the ceiling, shimmering in the light from the spacious windows. Directly below it was a glass table with a vase of roses in the center; the table itself was bordered by two large leather couches. This was where Vargas led him. Antonio obeyed when he was offered a seat, mind whirling.

"So what is it that you'd like to know about?" The actor opposite him appeared perfectly at ease, _interested_ even, eyes so open and guileless Antonio had trouble believing it was really him. "Ask away, I'll answer!"

"Well," Antonio began, "everyone's been so excited to hear you'll be starring in _Before Sunrise_. Including me," he added, and Vargas laughed. A strange, carefree, lighthearted sound, no sign of condescension whatsoever. "But as for Bella Peeters being the female lead... What are your thoughts on that?"

He waited for a negative reaction from Vargas, a frown maybe, or hardened eyes. But – nothing. The man before him still smiled. He sure was good at this.

"Oh, I don't have much to say on that, really. She's a great person! Great at everything she does, too. I'm happy to be working with her..."

* * *

><p>"So, how did it go, Antonio? ... Antonio?"<p>

Antonio cracked open one eye, then the other. Both Francis and Gilbert were hovering eagerly over him, Francis with spatula in hand, Gilbert looking much better now, wearing thick pajamas and a heavy scarf.

"What d'you guys want?" mumbled Antonio, shutting his eyes once more.

"Aw, come on, Toni. Don't play." Gilbert was grinning. "This is _serious_."

"I just survived an interview with the most famous actor in the _world_. Can't I have a minute of peace – _hey_! Francis!"

The Frenchman flipped open Antonio's notepad, devouring the words on the page, and his mouth opened in a large O.

"Whoa there, Francis, what's – wow." Gilbert stopped to read. "He really said all that?"

"Yeah... I wasn't expecting it at all."

Gilbert squinted suspiciously at him. "Are you _sure_ that was Vargas?"

"I saw him with my own eyes!" protested Antonio. "But he did look happier than usual."

"Did you see him smile?" inquired Francis with great interest.

"... Yes?"

"No way," breathed Francis. "Antonio, _mon ami_. You have to be the luckiest man alive! The guy _never_ smiles in his pictures!"

"Did you ask him for an autograph?" Gilbert interrupted.

"No. Should I have?"

"_Zut_. Of course – why didn't you? Well, what was his place like? Gold-paved roads? Marble walls? Diamond windows?"

Antonio couldn't stop smiling.

"You two..."

It was going to be a long day. But not in a bad sense – no, not at all.

* * *

><p>Pride welled up in his chest when he saw his article heading Thursday's Entertainment section. <em>VARGAS COMMENTS ON FUTURE MOVIE ROLE WITH PEETERS<em>. And under the title, _Antonio Fernandez Carriedo_.

The views to their webpage had gone up several thousand in the last few hours for Antonio's article alone. They'd sold the most copies they had all week.

"Nice job with that one," said Arthur, passing Antonio's desk without so much as a smile.

"Thanks, Arthur."

Antonio felt lighter than he had in a long while.

Over by the doorway, Toris met his eyes and gave him a shy thumbs up. And Francis thumped him on the back while making googly eyes at the editor's retreating form. Antonio, silently elated by all the attention, was in the middle of a new article when he heard the phone ring, loud and demanding, and glanced up to see Mathias in his office answering.

"Good morning, this is the office of – " He stopped abruptly, eyes widening. "You are... Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Vargas. Is there something you – "

_Vargas_.

Antonio jolted in his seat, barely noticing how the entire room had gone still upon hearing the name. All eyes were fixed on Mathias as he spoke, a frown beginning on his face.

"... You don't believe the article accurately reflects your views? All right... If you'd like to have it taken down, we'll do it immediately. Yes." He paused, and everyone else seemed to pause with him, holding their breaths. "We're very sorry for any problems this has caused you, Mr. Vargas... My deepest apologies."

He hung up and came out of his office, into the newsroom proper. A deadly silence. Antonio's blood had turned to ice.

"Antonio," said the Editor-in-Chief tiredly. "Can I talk to you for a minute, please?"

* * *

><p>The door didn't just swing open; it slammed, and right away he knew it was Gilbert. Stalwart as a soldier, he'd gone marching out the second his sore throat and fever had passed, ready for another day of picking up news around the city. No one could say he wasn't devoted to his work.<p>

"I'm home!" he sang, dropping everything to the floor with a thump. "Why's it so damn dark? Oh, Antonio, you're back early! How was your day today – Antonio?"

"... Yeah?"

"What happened to you?" Gilbert crossed over to him. "You're a mess!"

"Nothing happened." Antonio turned over on his side to better see the small TV on the coffee table, the only source of light in the flat. "Just watching the news."

He could almost feel Gilbert frowning beside him. The couch creaked as his friend sat down, close to where Antonio had curled up. Gilbert's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "Antonio, you don't ever have to watch the news, you make it yourself." Antonio said nothing. "Did something go wrong at the office?"

Antonio pulled a threadbare couch cushion over his eyes. "Vargas called."

A short silence. "What'd he say?"

"That I misrepresented his views. That my article had to be taken down. That I'm a horrid reporter, basically."

"What. Are you kidding me?" Gilbert's voice rose. "Are you fucking kidding me? _You wrote down exactly what he said_! Right from your notes – " He jumped up, snatching Antonio's notepad off his desk to reread it. "See – it's the same thing! He said good shit about her! That was all – I saw your article myself, _it's the same thing_!"

"Mathias and Arthur spoke with me," Antonio said listlessly. "I'm just sitting tight and awaiting further instructions."

Gilbert shook his head slowly. "No fucking way. They can't fucking fire you like that – it's _unfair_." He grabbed his coat and started putting it back on. "I'm going back to talk to them, Vargas be damned."

"Don't bother. Francis was there – he argued with them when he heard. Now he might be in trouble too."

"Where'd he go?"

"Just to the market, to get food. He'll be back."

Gilbert sat down again and pulled Antonio to him, fingers brushing through the Spaniard's hair and untangling the knots. "Goddamnit, Antonio." His voice was a whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Antonio only closed his eyes. He had nothing to say.

* * *

><p><em>At least<em> they _still have work_, he thought to himself the next morning, lying in bed and watching his friends walk out the door.

His chest felt hollow. So unbearably hollow.

He went out to Times Square that evening and sat alone for an hour under the snow.

* * *

><p>Five years of hard work and credibility, gone down the drain for no reason at all. Like those other five years he'd spent so long ago.<p>

* * *

><p>"Antonio," said Francis, shaking him. "Antonio, you have to at least <em>eat<em>."

Antonio rolled over on his bed, facing the ceiling. "'M not hungry."

"I don't care if you're not hungry." But Francis' voice quickly lost its sharpness. "Come on, Toni. You need to keep your strength up. And how will you get work if you're just lying around?"

It was Gilbert's turn to make dinner. Francis, leading Antonio to the table, couldn't help a snicker at the wurst.

"Hey!" shouted Gilbert from his chair, mouth already full. "The hell you laughin' at?"

"I could've cooked that _so_ much better."

"No way," Gilbert declared. "You gotta have some German in you for that."

"Are you implying something here – "

Antonio sat down and automatically put a spoonful into his mouth. At once he was ravenous. Gilbert and Francis watched in awe as he began shoveling down food like he'd been through a week-long famine.

"What did I tell you about my cooking?" Gilbert said with pride.

* * *

><p>The third day, everyone's day off, Antonio read the newspapers. Francis noticed this, and also that the paper was their own <em>Times<em>.

"Toni," he said cautiously. "You're – "

"Looking for a job," finished Antonio. "There has to be _someone_ hiring around here."

But that day there was nothing.

He threw the paper into the fireplace.

* * *

><p>"I'm going to the coffee shop," announced Antonio on the morning of the fourth day, pushing aside his chair and going to the coat rack. His two friends exchanged glances; this was why he'd bothered to actually dress properly.<p>

"Are you asking about job openings?"

"Yeah." Antonio slipped on his coat and scarf. "I remember seeing a sign on their door last week."

"In that case..." Francis also rose. "_Bonne chance_!"

"Good luck!" echoed Gilbert.

Antonio mustered a grateful smile. "Thanks, guys – you're the best."

He was just pulling on his boots when his phone rang – the first time in four days. His heart stopped at the tinny sound, then leapt suddenly. Surely it had to be...

But the phone screen displayed an unfamiliar number, not from their state. Antonio answered anyway, aware of Gilbert's and Francis' stares.

"Hello?"

"Is this Antonio Fernandez Carriedo?" demanded a male voice he didn't recognize. Low and smooth, with a slight undertone of irritation – or anxiety, he couldn't tell. For a second Antonio hesitated.

"... Yes? Who is this?"

The man on the other end let out a long sigh. "_Good_. I had a hard enough time even finding you in the first place. You came to my house instead of Beilschmidt, didn't you? And your employer at the _Times_ fired you after I made that call?"

Antonio nearly dropped the phone.

_No way_. There was _no way_ –

"Are you Lovino Vargas?" he asked weakly. Two chairs overturned as Gilbert and Francis raced to his side.

"Yes," said the man. "Yes, I'm Lovino Vargas. We need to talk. It appears there's been a mistake."

* * *

><p><strong>So... a plot bunny hit and as you should know I am notoriously bad at fending off plot bunnies. THEY'RE DANGEROUS CREATURES OKAY. Anyway - I also realized I have precious few Spamano AUs in the present, mostly way in the past and future, so I tried this. I've always loved the idea of melancholy little writer Antonio. He makes my heart weep. And I also love putting Lovino in positions of power and making him older. There are precious few older Lovis in the fandom too, that I know of at least.<strong>

**Next chapter should be Lovi's POV!**

**If you made it this far you are a darling and I love you dearly. Please review and tell me what you think? :'D**

**Translations**

**_Putain__, __t'es __vraiment __malade __- Fuck, y__ou really are sick (__T'es = __tu __es__, only spoken French tends to shorten things.)_**

**_Bonne chance! - Good luck!_**

**_Before Sunrise _is an actual movie lol you guys should watch it. I just thought Lovi fit the male role kind of... **


	2. two to keep a secret

Lovino Romano Vargas had done many things in his short, illustrious lifetime. He had worked his way up at eleven years old, seventeen years straight, to reach the topmost tier of the entertainment industry. He had, almost single-handedly, earned his own mansion and five hundred grand a day. He had donated over a fourth of his money to charities and started his own school. He had won the hearts of young ladies the world over (and a fair number of men into the bargain), without even breaking a sweat.

So calling an unlucky former reporter, of all the people in the world to be concerned with, shouldn't have been such a big deal. But it was – because Lovino had made a mistake. And Lovino Romano Vargas, at this point in his life, never made mistakes of this proportion. Especially not ones involving poor young men who'd meant no harm at all.

Lovino really was losing his touch.

Here in the mornings, he thought, it was always so chilly, when the cold air kept creeping in through the sides of the closed window-panes to ruffle the cream-colored curtains. He had been warm last night after seeing Carlota, but it had worn off too quickly. And now – five a.m., the worst possible time to be up taking care of business, with a headache and short temper to boot. Lovino hadn't bothered to turn on the lights.

"Hello?" he muttered again, fiddling idly with the phone cord and resisting the urge to yawn. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, on the other end, seemed to be taking his sweet time to answer; all Lovino could hear was his nervous breathing. "Did something happen over there? Where'd you go?"

The man finally spoke. "You... you've got to be kidding me." Either his voice was shaking, or it was just the static, or both. There was something about the way he sounded – young and inexperienced to Lovino's ears. "If you're a prank caller doing this for your own amusement, please stop. It's not funny."

"Oh, come on." Lovino nearly rolled his eyes, then remembered no one could see him, and did so anyway. "Do you think I'd know about the interview arrangements if I wasn't me? I don't have time to explain." He glanced over at the mantelpiece, on which sat an antique clock, ticking steadily towards 5:10. "Look, I just wanted to say sorry for what happened last week, I'll – "

"Damn right!" a rough, obnoxious voice interrupted, drowning out all else. "How could you even _do_ that to our Antonio? You'd better be sorry, Vargas, I don't care if you're rich and famous, you have _no idea_ what he went through – "

Lovino delicately moved the phone away from his ear. The chandelier above him sparkled despite the lack of light, its crystal pieces making tiny tinkles in the air. He counted. Two, four, six, eight. Breathe in, breathe out, calm. He had dealt with more than this before.

"And _who_ do I have the honor of speaking to?"

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," proclaimed the stranger (_he should have known_), "and I'd thank you to fucking remember it!"

Then came a muffled exclamation, and brief fumbling noises, followed by a thump. It sounded as if their phone had just fallen. A few seconds passed, before Antonio came back onto the line, evidently even more perturbed. He must finally have decided Lovino was really Lovino.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry. I – my friend – please excuse him, he didn't mean – "

"It's fine." With his free hand Lovino massaged his temple. "It was my mistake. I wasn't really... I apologize. I could speak to your boss and rearrange things for you. If you'd like."

"No, it'll be – it's all right. You don't have to." Not just a young one, but a soft-spoken and proud young one. Almost enough to make Lovino feel guilty. "Thank you, though."

"Are you _sure_?"

"Yes." For the first time since they'd spoken, Antonio sounded fairly certain. "I can manage."

"It's not hard for me," Lovino tried. "I just have to call him and take back my statement. I saw the article about you, you know." Antonio had fallen silent. "I'm sorry for that. I'll make it up to you. I could send you a check – "

"Don't."

Lovino made a comical 'What?' face at the phone that no one was around to see.

"What?"

"Don't call him," said Antonio. "Don't send me money. I'm not going back. You don't need to do anything for me."

Lovino's head had started hurting again, but in a different way altogether.

How on earth could this man be so damn _stubborn_? Where anyone would've accepted the help – or at least the money – in recompense, he'd refused everything right off. They were all the same, these young men, so full of themselves. But how the hell could Lovino hush things up if he didn't –

"Do you have a job right now?" he asked instead.

A longer pause this time. His question seemed to have caught Antonio off guard.

"... No," Antonio answered after a moment. He sounded deflated now. "No, I don't."

He was just out to guilt-trip Lovino, wasn't he? But intentional or not, he'd achieved the desired effect.

"Well then, would you like me to..." This time Lovino took care to avoid the word 'help.' "... find one for you? I have a lot of business connections." That, of course, being an understatement.

"No. No, it's – "

"It's not fine." Firmness, he knew, could move mountains. "I insist. How about you come back here so we can discuss this? I'm free tomorrow afternoon. I could pay for your plane ticket – I owe you at least that much."

Antonio's voice was panicked, almost adorably so. "But – Mr. Vargas, you don't have to – "

"Call me Lovino. And I'll see you soon, whenever you're available."

"Gosh, I – " Antonio let out a breath. "I – thank you, Mr – Lovino. You really didn't – "

"It's nothing. Have a nice day, all right?"

"I-I will. You too. Thank you so much..." Antonio stopped short, almost as if he had something else to say. "Well, I – I'll be there tomorrow. Around two p.m. I'll give you a call."

"That'll be great. Until then, Antonio. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

A second, a click, and Antonio had hung up.

Lovino stared at the phone for a few minutes afterwards, as if it might suddenly explode in his hand. By all standards that had been one hell of a conversation. And clearly the black coffee from an hour ago had yet to work its magic. Note to self – never call people early in the morning again.

He shook himself and replaced the phone on the table.

The clock now read 5:45. Perfect. At this rate he'd still have an hour or two to spend before going to see Roderich for his new suit (which he'd wear tomorrow, just to see Antonio's reaction). He stood up and began carefully to make his way towards the light-switch. Strange that Hans the butler still wasn't up – he'd get a little talking to later, for sure –

Somewhere beyond the living room, a door creaked open. A short yelp was all the warning Lovino had before a ball of grey fur shot out from around the corner, straight into his knees, causing him to lose his balance.

"Argh!"

He promptly received his standard morning greeting, a face full of doggy saliva. Never mind the fact that he wasn't in the mood for it (he never was) – little Angie the Pomeranian had just achieved what every fan in the world would've liked to do to him. Even to her, apparently, Lovino was amazingly hot.

"Get off me," he grumbled, to more enthusiastic barking. No sooner had he peeled her from his face than he heard footsteps descending the stairs and a switch being flicked on. In the sudden blinding light, he could just discern a familiar someone leaning over him – his brother Feliciano.

"Ah, so that's where you went!" Angie, still barking merrily, was lifted away by a pair of hands not unlike Lovino's own. "I heard you both yelling. You're better than an alarm clock!"

"Really, now," muttered Lovino, getting up and dusting himself off. "I fail to see your humor. If I get any bruises you'll be on set next week."

"Oh, but you know you love our Angie. Don't you, Lovi? See, she knows," Feliciano crooned, petting her fur, completely oblivious to Lovino's struggle to clean his face. "Aww... what a cutie."

"Feli, you're acting like a girl again."

"Since when?" In response to Lovino's no-nonsense look, Feliciano only pouted; for Lovino it felt like gazing at a mirror image of himself. "I'm twenty-eight now, Lovi, can't you see?"

"And so am I." Suddenly Lovino's headache had returned with full force. He sank back down on the couch and closed his eyes. "I called that reporter just now, Feli."

At long last he'd gained his brother's attention. "I heard you! Was he the one I told you about? Antonio... Carriedo, I think his name was?"

"Who else? He's coming over tomorrow afternoon. I didn't tell him how I made that _magnificent_ screw-up the other day, but I have to tell him something. Help me out."

Feliciano sat down beside him and also closed his eyes. "I'd just apologize again, give him some money and patch things up with his work. He should be quiet then."

"Problem is, it's free money to him. He doesn't want it."

"But Vargas money is always a good thing!"

Lovino glanced pointedly over at him. "He doesn't want it."

"Well..." Feliciano seemed lost for words; then his eyes brightened and he turned excitedly to Lovino. "... He's certainly good-looking enough! Don't you think, Lovi?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" But it was true. Lovino had seen his picture in the article about his being fired. Somewhat unruly brown hair, somewhat tired green eyes, but a nice smile. A nice honesty about him. That was rare, in journalists. "You're not saying..."

"If he's looking for a job, hire him! God knows he needs _that_ sort of money."

It took a moment to sink in.

"Good point."

* * *

><p>In retrospect, it hadn't really been Lovino's fault. There was plenty to blame. Including alcohol, bad days and a woman named Bella Peeters.<p>

He remembered receiving the call last Wednesday. Wednesdays were the only days he really ever put up with, the days he did everything he could and nothing he wanted. And the last thing he'd expected was to answer a Mathias Kohler from the _Times_, oh-so-courteously demanding an interview for the _next_ Wednesday (damn him). Not only that, but twelve hours before the interview was to take place, he'd gotten _another_ call informing him of a change – Gilbert Beilschmidt to Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. He had had only one thought.

There were some serious management problems over at the _Times_.

The first thing Lovino had done after the first call was silence his phone and shout for Tino the chauffeur to drive faster. After the second call he silenced his phone and went straight to bed.

It wasn't as though he had to be there in person.

Feliciano had been all too happy to take on the assignment, with further instructions on limiting his cheerful vibes so he'd be more believable. The sad thing was, he'd never been one for taking Lovino's advice. But for once Lovino didn't care. With an easy conscience the next morning he'd set out with Tino, and by the time the fateful Bella Peeters question was popped, he was cruising around Beverly Hills in the back of a limousine, a bottle of Rioja his trusty companion.

(He'd also gone to see his maybe-future-girlfriend Carlota for some fun, but that was beside the point. Just as Bella was beside the point.)

Problem was, he'd been just a bit drunk in the morning, just drunk enough to forget to remind Feliciano how to _answer_ the fateful Bella Peeters question. And he'd returned drunk the next morning, just drunk enough to throw a fit at the article and complain loudly to the _Times_. Feliciano in turn had also been reprimanded, just enough, just enough.

One day later, of course, he'd regretted it.

(So in retrospect, it _had_ kind of been his fault. But that was also beside the point.)

* * *

><p>Though two hours was the most free time he'd had all week, between avoiding newspaper reporters, seeing Carlota, ignoring Bella's calls (whatever the hell she meant by them, he didn't <em>care<em>), and going over the scripts director Alfred Jones had provided, he realized he didn't know what to do with himself.

As promised, he went to see Roderich Edelstein, arriving on the designer's doorstep the minute the clock struck seven.

"Fancy seeing you here, Vargas," drawled the man, simply because he could, and also because after ten years of knowing each other there really was no other suitable greeting. Lovino favored him with the sardonic smile he reserved for close and wealthy friends, and stepped past him into the parlor.

He never ceased to be amazed with Roderich's eye for design of all kinds. The roof overhead was a low-hanging pattern of wooden slats, vanishing into whitewashed walls adorned with musical-themed paintings. A circular one, the size of a tabletop, had been placed in the center of them all, splashed with hues of red, blue and green.

"A present from my niece," remarked Roderich when he caught Lovino staring.

"Ah."

To that piece all else appeared secondary – nearly invisible unlit fireplace, the vase of pink flowers on the glass table, white chairs with black stripes, small trimmed bush in the corner with its very own pot. Most of the room was sparsely furnished. It made one feel small.

Lovino never liked feeling small. But Roderich did that to everyone.

"I didn't come late to the party, did I?"

"No." Roderich took a seat opposite him and observed him closely, violet eyes through half-moon glasses. "But too much partying is bad for the health. Your face tells me that much."

He should've expected Roderich to notice.

"Ah, shut it."

The designer sniffed – quite literally. "You still smell like alcohol."

"That's because I drank some on the way here."

"Drunk driving is illegal, Lovino Vargas. Even for actors like you."

"For your information, I was in the back of a limo. Your argument is therefore invalid."

Roderich almost smiled. "You're in a great mood today, aren't you, Lovino?"

"Always am, always will be. Where's the suit I requested?"

"Coming forth." Reaching for a bell at the end of the table, Roderich rang. A young man immediately entered with a small wrapped package. "I'd have invited you to my studio to try it out, but it's closed today. You know how the rules are."

"That's fine." Lovino had no desire to stay longer, anyway. "I'll be going now, then. Got an urgent appointment with the director. We could go to dinner later this week, maybe?"

"Oh, I know your ways, Lovino. Well, I accept – the dinner part only, that is. Not tomorrow?"

"No. I have to meet someone."

"You're making me jealous. Who is it?"

"No one you need to know. Don't worry, I'll call you when I'm free."

"Well." Roderich saw him to the door nevertheless. "I'd say you should try on that suit when you get home, and tell me what you think. Considering you've gotten thinner, there may still be room for adjustment."

Damn him for being so perceptive.

* * *

><p>Luckily, the suit fit after all.<p>

So Lovino had the last laugh – like he always did.

* * *

><p>Antonio had agreed to meet him... when? Two p.m.?<p>

But the little antique clock, which he'd have to replace soon, had already struck three-thirty. Even though fashionable lateness had always been Lovino's forte, this was _really_ pushing it. He'd told Feliciano to come back around four, however, and that should be plenty of time to work things out with the former journalist.

If he ever arrived, of course.

After a short and unsuccessful attempt at a siesta, Lovino debated giving the man a call. If Antonio had been true to his word, he'd probably set out at around eight that morning, and if he didn't know his way around here he was probably lost on the streets. Lovino didn't at all like the idea of a guest being lost on the streets. Accordingly he searched through his call records for an out-of-state number, found it, and redialed.

Ten rings later Antonio picked up.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Vargas – "

"Lovino," Lovino reminded him.

"... Lovino." Funny how three syllables could produce such an effect on another man. But Lovino relished it. "I'm so sorry I didn't pick up... my phone was dead before. I'm really late, aren't I?"

"Yes," said Lovino, with his best attempt at an unperturbed Feliciano voice. "Where are you right now? Do you need help getting here?"

"I... I'm on my way. I'm in a taxi right now." Antonio sounded rather ashamed – good for him. "Something happened and... well, that's not important. I'm really, really sorry. I'll be there in..." There was a pause. "Five minutes, tops."

"Great."

He made sure to tap out a quick text. _Change of plan, sorry Feli. Don't come back yet, I'll tell you when the coast is clear._

No answer, as expected, but Feliciano still had half an hour.

And Antonio, this time, proved true to his word. In five minutes there was a ring at the doorbell, and the butler went to receive him. Lovino remained in the living room until he could hear their footsteps in the foyer, then rose, went to the door and stopped.

Antonio was taller than he'd expected. _Much_ taller.

Half a head of height difference was only acceptable if Lovino was the one towering over people.

"Nice to see you again, Antonio," he was careful to say. "How was your trip?"

"It was... fine." But Antonio's face suggested otherwise. "There was a problem at the airport, though."

Lovino hadn't heard. "What happened?"

"Someone was arrested," said Antonio, looking like he'd rather not talk about it. "For smuggling weapons, I think... it delayed the rest of us for a bit. I'm sorry for being late."

"Oh, I see. It's all right." Secretly Lovino was wondering how he'd managed to miss the news, aside from not having checked that morning. He'd definitely have to hire someone to do that for him. "I didn't have anything going on today, anyway. And I just sent you your check."

Antonio froze. "Check?"

"For your ticket. You'll receive it later – I assumed you'd refuse if I gave it to you in person."

A quirk of the mouth. Would've looked nice on Antonio, had it been an actual smile. "You know me so well already, Mr – Lovino."

"I try. Anyway, have a seat."

Antonio sat, appearing remarkably unresentful in the house of someone who'd just lost him his job. In a glance Lovino's practiced eye took in everything there was to take in.

Suit a horrible faded grey, looking as if it had just celebrated its third birthday. Tie in a similar state. Shoes sordid brown, quite out of style. One would've thought a journalist might have enough money to afford a better suit, though maybe there were exceptions – or Lovino was just being critical. But Antonio's hair was the naturally curling kind Lovino had always envied, and his eyes were a softer green than the newspaper photo had let on. Every one of his features spoke of gentleness, though not necessarily contentment.

"How old are you?" asked Lovino before he could stop himself. Antonio jumped slightly at the sudden question, his eyes growing a little rounder.

"Twenty-two."

"Oh." Lovino didn't know why he was so surprised. There were plenty of young journalists the world over, he'd just never met any of them. He'd always thought they were the same, sarcastic little creatures with biting tongues. But Antonio's very presence was breaking all those rules. "Well... about what happened, I'm sorry again. I told you yesterday I could speak to your boss. You're certain you don't want me to?"

"I'm certain. It's all right," said Antonio, meeting his eyes squarely. "I wanted a change anyway." Lovino anticipated the question in his face and cut in at once.

"You're still looking for a job, aren't you?"

"Yes..."

"What type of job would you like? I could recommend you for one. Art, design, film, you name it. I know people all over the globe."

Now Antonio looked distinctly uncomfortable. "That... that's really kind of you, Lovino... but – "

"No buts, all right? You deserve something nice." The chandelier jingled quietly overhead. "Just tell me and I could make the call."

Immediately he realized he'd been too bold, and too quick; Antonio's eyes didn't lose their confused expression, but the question in them had resurfaced. It was too late to stop him.

"If you don't mind my asking..." Another little jingling noise. "What made you call on that day?"

For the first time that day – for the first time he could remember – Lovino didn't know what to say. No suitable answer had occurred to him that wouldn't also detract from his reputation. And telling the truth was inconceivable. He glanced briefly toward the door to the foyer, away from Antonio, and all of a sudden realized the jingling wasn't coming from the chandelier. It was coming from beyond the living room, along with a new sound.

Footsteps.

"_Fratello_!" A voice shouted cheerfully. "I'm back – "

He couldn't get to the door fast enough to prevent it from opening.

Feliciano waltzed through, saw them both, and his smile faded rapidly into nothingness.

"Oh my God."

He was not the only one who had frozen up. Antonio was staring at him, mouth wide open, comprehension slowly dawning in his eyes.

"You..." He turned to Lovino, who had lost the ability to speak, and then back to Feliciano. "You... I... I talked to you on Wednesday." His face was so frightfully blank. "It's you... right?"

At last Feliciano relented. "Yes."

"Then..." Antonio mechanically faced Lovino again. "... Who are you?"

Lovino had only two words.

"Fucking _shit_."

* * *

><p>They remained like that for a full five minutes, Feliciano almost shivering under the weight of Lovino's gaze and Antonio looking between the two of them bewilderedly, over and over and over again.<p>

No one spoke until he did.

"Could someone please explain?" He sounded quite helpless. "Please?"

Feliciano shifted, but was stopped by the look Lovino sent him. "I... I can't tell you," he said instead, very convincingly.

"You're twins, aren't you." No one answered; it was a statement, not a question, and it was the truth. "How...?"

"It's a long story," interrupted Lovino. "I'd rather not go into details at this point."

"But – " Antonio had lost his nervousness now, and gestured wildly toward Feliciano. "I spoke to him! He was the one I cited in my article... and then you called, right? And got me fired?" His voice rose just a notch. "What do you mean by this? I never did anything to either of you! Never!"

"It was a _mistake_! I'm trying to make it up to you!"

"And what then? What secret are you even keeping from everyone, besides your twin? Who's the real Lovino Vargas here? You can tell me that much, at least?"

Lovino sighed.

"I am."

Feliciano implored him with his eyes. "_Fratello_... please. Can't we just tell him? We've hurt him enough."

"You're supposed to _help_ me, not side with everyone else! You know why we can't!"

"I'm not! I just think he has a right to know!" Facing Antonio, Feliciano lowered his voice. "If we tell you, you'll promise to keep quiet for us, won't you?"

"I will." Antonio said it without the heavy false conviction of liars, without conviction at all. Without expression. "Tell me, if you want. I don't care."

Once more Lovino wasn't fast enough to stop his brother.

"I'm Feliciano and I'm his substitute. I just act in his place sometimes. That's all."

Antonio looked neither amazed nor disappointed by his short explanation. "So you were just acting for me that Wednesday. On your brother's behalf." Feliciano gave a nod. "And he read the article the next day and thought I – "

"He was drinking."

"You just _had_ to include that bit, didn't you."

"Oh. That makes sense now." Antonio smiled briefly and stood. "Well, I guess I'll be going. I'm sorry if I was a bother. I didn't know you'd both be here."

"Wait, Antonio!" Lovino called after him. "What are you doing?"

"Going home. Is there anything else you need, Mr. Vargas?"

"I'd like you to stay and talk something over with me."

Antonio stopped, then came back and resumed his seat. "All right."

"About your needing a job. I haven't forgotten that, you know." Feliciano, sitting quietly to Lovino's left now, did not interrupt. "I know about all the work you've done in journalism. I could find you a job at another newspaper. But aside from that, if you're not interested... I may be in need of an assistant."

He knew Antonio would understand instantly. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can accept either."

"Maybe you could think it over."

"I will." Lovino didn't stop him from leaving this time. "I'll tell you when I've come to a decision."

They watched as, escorted by the butler, he made his way back to the door, looking sad and forlorn in his old suit and old shoes. At the last minute he turned back.

"Goodbye, Mr. Vargas," he said to each of them in turn. "It was nice meeting you both."

His words hung heavily in the air, long after he'd departed.

* * *

><p>It was quiet at breakfast that Wednesday.<p>

All too aware of the absence of his wineglass, Lovino aimlessly ran his fork through the scrambled eggs on his plate. Feliciano, just opposite him, was doing the same, but unlike Lovino he was actually eating.

"I messed that up pretty bad, didn't I," said Lovino to the air. He could feel his brother staring at him, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on his food.

"I did too. I shouldn't have."

"The one time you turned your phone off."

"I know. I'm sorry, Lovi."

Lovino waved his fork in a gesture of surrender. "It doesn't matter anymore. What Carriedo says, he says. We've been hiding this for too long already."

"He didn't look like the type to tell secrets," mused Feliciano. "Not even if he was angry."

"Who knows."

"He seemed like a nice guy. Really."

"Even nice guys have their limits."

Feliciano had nothing to say to that. The rest of the meal passed in an uncomfortable silence.

"I think I'll get Tino to sneak me into Grauman's," he announced an hour later. "I heard there's a premiere on today. Want to come with us?"

"No thanks," muttered Lovino, sprawled on the couch with Angie curled in his lap. "We'd get found out easier that way."

"Oh, come on, Lovi. You're sure?"

"Yeah. I still need to ask Roderich out."

"Really?"

"Of course. I promised him something nice, and I still have to call him."

"Well... have it your way then!" Feliciano put on his sunglasses (he never could tell his own from Lovino's) and went to the door. "I'll be careful, don't worry! See you later!"

"Bye."

Good thing Tino had been expressly advised not to take Feli anywhere public.

Lovino sighed and closed his eyes after the door had swung shut, but even that was denied him. Angie had started licking his face again. He groaned and pulled her off, gently nevertheless.

"What are you up to again?" A bark. "I'm tired. Stop bothering me."

She nuzzled against his arm.

"Goddamnit. Forget this shit. I'm going to sleep, Carriedos be damned."

The phone rang.

He waited five whole seconds before picking up, knowing he still sounded like he'd just rolled out of bed. "Hello?"

"Hello?" inquired a familiar voice. "Hello, Mr. Vargas. How are you today?"

Lovino, despite his skill in maintaining his composure, nearly dropped the phone.

"_Antonio_?"

"Yes, Mr. Vargas, I'm Antonio. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. I just wanted to call and tell you... I accept. I'd like to be your assistant. If you're all right with it."

In that moment Lovino believed wholeheartedly in his lucky stars.

And thanked them.

* * *

><p><strong>So, a couple of things.<strong>

**One - After a few calculations, I realized I meant to set Lovino's age as twenty-eight in Ch. 1, not twenty-six as I originally wrote. Yes, I swear I can count... stars. /shot**

**Two - I honestly think an older Lovino would see Antonio as ridiculously cute (even if he doesn't admit it). I totally would if it were me. X) Although since I'm not a world-famous actress and probably won't be anytime soon, I'm not sure how well that part came off. I may have to come back and re-edit sometime. I kind of rushed this since I have no time to write the rest of this month...**

**Three - Uhhh to answer the guest Lan's question I am not exactly French, but a good portion of my family does come from France (ouais je suis Charlie aussi) and I learned French from them. Anyway thank you for reviewing and thank you to EVERYONE OKAY YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME AND I WANT TO HUG YOU ALL. /HUGS YOU ALL**

**Until Chapter Three - which I have no plan for at the moment and may be updating much later... because I am so so busy it is not even funny. /drops and rolls away :"D**

**EDIT 1/21/15: Finally fixed all the errors. I hope you guys liked this chapter. Please review? :)**


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